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October 26, 2002

Cafe Saraj

I’m tired and hungover and hungry and in such a hurry to leave and get on the road to Kentucky that I shouldn’t be writing this right now, as I know I don’t have the vocabulary or the grace to do it any kind of justice. I need to write it now, though while things are still fresh in my head.

I spent last night going to Bosnian bars.

St. Louis has the largest U.S. immigrant population of Bosnians. There’s a neighborhood close by that has been totally revitalized by this community and it’s a really cool thing to see.

So when Cary and Liz came to take me out last night, I envisioned sitting in dimly lit bars over cocktails with well-dressed people and pleasant conversation-level music in the background. We had decided to go to a handful of bars, mostly familiar to me, in the South Grand area. I heard them trompling up the stairs of Josh’s fire escape in their boots and they burst into the place, all squeals and hugs and grins. And then impish Liz says, with her smile that defies you to deny her, “We’re taking you to Cafe Saraj. We’re taking you to Bosnian bars tonight!” Well, alright. Let’s go!

The first place we went, Cafe Saraj, we would have passed by, save for the woman acting as a hawker out front. The place itself was fairly non-descript, an old Irish pub with the old bar name and a leprechaun still painted on the side of the building. The woman, employed by the bar in some capacity I still can’t figure out, was just plain striking. She was short and thin, wearing a red sweater and had dyed her black hair white. It was frizzy and standing up on top of her head in a strange approximation of a huge afro, black roots proudly showing. From the street we could hear the wailing and whirling musicians.

Liz nudged me. “You go first,” she said and all of a sudden I remembered alll the trouble and bad situations that I’d found myself in because of Liz’s ideas that she always insisted I go through with first. This wasn’t quite like that but it was kind of warming to remember, as I often forget this about Liz who sometimes seems so different than the punk rock hellion she was when I met her, now respectably married and in a doctoral program.

So in we went. It was a long bar, well-lit for a drinking establishment, with the musicians by the front door. There were a handful of tables with white tablecloths and between them and the bar were four people, arm in arm, doing some sort of folk dance (a Bosnian one, I’d wager) and singing along with the musicians, heads thrown back and no attempt to sing in tune.

I liked it here. It was loud and gorgeous and manic.

We found a spot at the bar and ordered drinks. Liz and Cary are whisky drinkers. I ordered a vodka tonic. “No tonic. Sprite.” Oh well. “I’ll take it straight with a lemon.” A perfect drink, just a few ice cubes. Delicious Absolut, lemony and crisp and cold.

We stayed and talked and listened to the amazing music, but I couldn’t help feeling a little ill at ease because we were the center of attention. I kept looking up to meet eyes that had been examining me. We were the only non-Bosnians in the packed-to-Friday-night-capacity bar, and it was obvious and just a little disconcerting. We made friends. Some strage man bought us drinks, but luckily, never came to say hello. Men made advances to Cary, then Liz. “Do you speak Bosnian?” was always the first question. When the answer was no, the back was always turned. Finally Cary, a little frustrated, when asked the second most common question of the evening, “If you don’t understand [the music, the language] why are you here?” answered back a little desperately, “We like the way it sounds.” And beautiful stuff it was, all mournful and melancholy, mostly Arabic based music with beautiful Slavic syllables sung over it.

We had to make a quick getaway to Cafe Verona, when Liz’s young suitor (very young, probably 22 if a day) became a little too insistent that she become his date for the evening. “But I’m married!” she exclaimed, flashing her wedding ring. “That’s alright,” he said. “I am too!”

“Mazeltov,” I said, and grabbing Cary and Liz, headed for the front door.

The night was full of adventures. Sadly, I can’t recount them all here because I have to load my sleepy self and stinky bags of clothes into my brother’s Jeep and head out east, into the hilly green of Kentucky, the good smells of my grandmother’s kitchen and her hard, hard, sweet hugs that I can’t wait to feel again.

Posted by pogo at October 26, 2002 11:50 AM